


For Yonder Breaks

by yet_intrepid



Series: The Skies I'm Under [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Civil War, Alternate Universe - Historical, BAMF Arwen Undómiel, BAMF Tauriel (Implied), Gen, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Merry is a Girl, POV Arwen Undómiel, Tauriel is Black, Twelve Days of Fic-mas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: Lotho Sackville-Baggins bows grandiosely. “Please, Miss Peredhel, allow me to bring you punch.”
Arwen casts a glance over her shoulder at the punch table, hardly two feet away. But Lotho is—well, it’s best not to offend him, unfortunately. The Sackville-Bagginses are a very wealthy family, wealthy and dangerous.
(in which Arwen, an underground railroad conductor, navigates Old South high society)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [megster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megster/gifts).



> For a prompt from Megan: "i am sort of partial to elrond and his various progeny.... i was hoping for Arwen being badass"
> 
> There was going to be so much Tauriel in this fic and then I realized I'd already written a thousand words and needed to start on the next prompt and - I am sorry. My apologies also to the Sackville-Bagginses, who are probably not THIS shitty in canon.
> 
> Title from "Oh Holy Night."

“Oh gracious, no, don’t let me steal the piano all night!” Arwen, deftly maneuvering the pink expanse of her hoopskirt as she rises from the bench, gives her most bashful smile and turns to the woman standing nearest the piano. “Miss Lindir, I’ve heard you do a positively lovely Jingle Bells.”

There’s a chorus of agreement and, as Miss Lindir starts to play, Arwen makes her escape towards the punch table. It’s near midnight and she’s exhausted from dancing and singing, one heel starting to blister. She’ll regret that later, certain enough, when the party is over.

“Miss Peredhel!”

Arwen goes still a moment, summons up a smile, and turns to greet the last man in Savannah she wants to speak to. “Mr. Sackville-Baggins!”

Lotho Sackville-Baggins bows grandiosely. “Please, Miss Peredhel, allow me to bring you punch.”

She casts a glance over her shoulder at the table, hardly two feet away. But Lotho is—well, it’s best not to offend him, unfortunately. The Sackville-Bagginses are a very wealthy family, wealthy and dangerous.

Arwen curtsies to him in response. “You’re too kind, thank you,” she says, and he smiles at her—a stiff smile, teeth too bared, and she can’t tell if he’s just awkward and full of himself or if he really has figured it out.

If he has, God help her. God help all of them. Her mother, her grandmother, everything could come crashing down. Tauriel could be caught out. And while the Peredhel and the Artanis families are respected enough—rich enough, white enough—that they might get off with merely a fine, Tauriel doesn’t have that protection. Still in slavery and relentlessly involved with the escape work, she’s already at too much risk without Arwen slipping up.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Lotho offers, as he returns with two glasses of punch and presses one into her gloved hand.

Arwen grips the glass a little too hard. “Oh no,” she demurs, gesturing airily with her free hand, “hardly worth that much. It’s the war, that’s all, and silly of me to let it into my mind now!”

“Very silly,” Lotho says, “if I may say so without offense. You’re much too beautiful to wear such a pensive expression, especially at so fine a party.”

“Grandmother’s hostessing is certainly superb,” Arwen sidesteps. “And is that Miss Lindir still at the piano? I never knew her French was so excellent!”

Lotho has to crane his neck to see who is, in fact, at the piano, giving Arwen a half-second to take a steadying breath. She has to catch Merry Brandybuck before people start going home, she reminds herself—Merry is in contact with the Union garrison at Fort Pulaski, she’s the one who can tell Arwen where the trade-off point will be tonight.

“Yes, it’s Miss Lindir,” Lotho reports back. “Her French is quite nice, isn’t it? But she does not play half so well as you.”

Arwen laughs, shaking off the flattery, and sips at her punch.

“Do you sing in French as well?” Lotho asks. “I hear there’s a new French carol that’s gaining popularity. _Cantique de Noel_ , I think it’s called.”

“Why, Mr. Sackville-Baggins,” Arwen says, channeling the truth of how he’s flustered her into the indignation she needs to portray. “Surely you know that’s an abolitionist hymn? I should hope you wouldn’t consider me such a traitor as to sing a word of it!”

“Gracious,” says Lotho. He steps closer to her, uncomfortably close. “Is it?”

“Well, I haven’t heard the song myself of course,” Arwen says, scanning the crowd for Merry out of the corner of her eye. “But that’s what Miss Lindir told me, a fine tune and the most shameful poem set to it.”

There she is. They make eye contact, just for a moment, and Merry tilts her head towards the doors that lead to the garden and flashes some fingers: two minutes.

Two minutes to get out of this conversation without increasing any suspicions Lotho has. Mercy, Arwen thinks, and drinks more punch.

“…consider dancing?” Lotho is saying.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Arwen lies smoothly, pulling her attention back to the conversation. “I need some fresh air, I’m afraid—it’s quite stuffy in here. But if I might be so bold, Miss Figwit was certainly glancing your way earlier this evening. And she’s a much better dance partner than I.”

Lotho’s brow tenses, but he smiles again. “You make up for it with your beauty, Miss Peredhel,” he says, bowing. “But if you have no need of company as you take the air, I will honor your suggestion.”

Arwen extends her hand in farewell. “I wish you a delightful dance, Mr. Sackville-Baggins.”

He kisses her glove and she escapes again, fanning herself to keep up the excuse until she steps through the doors into the garden.

Merry is waiting for her. “Miss Peredhel! Would you care for a walk?”

“Oh! Just a turn around the rosebeds,” she agrees, and they move out of earshot, still within the flood of light from the doors to prevent suspicion.

“After two a.m.,” Merry whispers, “the tide will start going out. Try to catch that. There’s a rowboat waiting, north side of Habersham Creek where it meets the Wilmington. That’s where you’ll meet the first conductor and take charge of the passengers.”

Arwen laughs, just in case anyone is paying attention, and Merry echoes her.

“Shall I go all the way to the station?” Arwen asks under her breath. 

Merry shakes her head. “Just down St. Augustine Creek, to Screvens’ Point. The usual signal when you arrive. Another conductor will go from there to the station.”

Arwen nods, raising her voice a bit since the next code is a fraction safer if overheard. “And your cousin? How is she?”

“She’s almost finished that embroidery piece she’s been so tied to,” Merry says, and Arwen’s heart jumps a little. Tauriel finally making her own escape?

“Will she finish it tonight, do you think?” Arwen asks, and it’s a struggle to keep her tone light.

“Oh, no,” says Merry. “But quite soon.”

“Give her my congratulations,” Arwen says, “if you speak with her before I do.”

“Of course,” says Merry. “But I really must take my leave, Miss Peredhel—I have promised Mr. Took a dance.”

“Well, that is not an opportunity to miss,” Arwen says. “I wish you a fine end to the evening, Miss Brandybuck.”

They step back into the house. Just an hour or so more, Arwen reminds herself, and the glittering guests will go home; just an hour or so and she’ll be free to do what matters, rather than playing this endless game of propriety and lies. And when what matters is safely done for the night, she’ll row herself home with the sun rising pale at her back—a holy night, a new and glorious morn.


End file.
